One green light squinting over
Kidd's Creek, which is near the
mouth of the pirate river, marked
where the brig, the JOLLY ROGER,
lay, low in the water; a rakish-looking
[speedy-looking] craft foul to
the hull, every beam in her detestable,
like ground strewn with mangled
feathers. She was the cannibal
of the seas, and scarce needed
that watchful eye, for she floated
immune in
the horror of her name.
She was wrapped in the blanket
of night, through which no sound
from her could have reached the
shore. There was little sound,
and none agreeable save the whir
of the ship's sewing machine
at which Smee sat, ever industrious
and obliging, the essence of
the commonplace, pathetic Smee.
I know not why he was so infinitely
pathetic, unless it were because
he was so pathetically unaware
of it; but even strong men had
to turn hastily from looking
at him, and more than once on
summer evenings he had touched
the fount of Hook's tears and
made it flow. Of this, as of
almost everything else, Smee
was quite unconscious.
A few of the pirates leant
over the bulwarks, drinking in
the miasma [putrid mist] of the
night; others sprawled by barrels
over games of dice and cards;
and the exhausted four who had
carried the little house lay
prone on the deck, where even
in their sleep they rolled skillfully
to this side or that out of Hook's
reach, lest he should claw them
mechanically in passing.
Hook trod the deck in thought.
O man unfathomable. It was his
hour of triumph. Peter had been
removed for ever from his path,
and all the other boys were in
the brig, about to walk the plank.
It was his grimmest deed since
the days when he had brought
Barbecue to heel; and knowing
as we do how vain a tabernacle
is man, could we be surprised
had he now paced the deck unsteadily,
bellied out by the winds of his
success?
But there was no elation in
his gait, which kept pace with
the action of his sombre mind.
Hook was profoundly dejected.
He was often thus when communing
with himself on board ship in
the quietude of the night. It
was because he was so terribly
alone. This inscrutable man never
felt more alone than when surrounded
by his dogs. They were socially
inferior to him.
Hook was not his true name.
To reveal who he really was would
even at this date set the country
in a blaze; but as those who
read between the lines must already
have guessed, he had been at
a famous public school; and its
traditions still clung to him
like garments, with which indeed
they are largely concerned. Thus
it was offensive to him even
now to board a ship in the same
dress in which he grappled [attacked]
her, and he still adhered in
his walk to the school's distinguished
slouch. But above all he retained
the passion for good form.
Good form! However much he
may have degenerated, he still
knew that this is all that really
matters.
From far within
him he heard a creaking as
of rusty portals,
and through them came a stern
tap-tap-tap, like hammering in
the night when one cannot sleep. "Have
you been good form to-day?" was
their eternal question.
"Fame, fame, that glittering
bauble, it is mine," he cried.
"Is it quite good form to be
distinguished at anything?" the
tap-tap from his school replied.
"I am the only man whom Barbecue
feared," he urged, "and Flint
feared Barbecue."
"Barbecue, Flint -- what house?" came
the cutting retort.
Most disquieting reflection
of all, was it not bad form to
think about good form?
His vitals were tortured by
this problem. It was a claw within
him sharper than the iron one;
and as it tore him, the perspiration
dripped down his tallow [waxy]
countenance and streaked his
doublet. Ofttimes he drew his
sleeve across his face, but there
was no damming that trickle.
Ah, envy not Hook.
There came to him a presentiment
of his early dissolution [death].
It was as if Peter's terrible
oath had boarded the ship. Hook
felt a gloomy desire to make
his dying speech, lest presently
there should be no time for it.
"Better for Hook," he cried, "if
he had had less ambition!" It
was in his darkest hours only
that he referred to himself in
the third person.
"No little
children to love me!"
Strange that he should think
of this, which had never troubled
him before; perhaps the sewing
machine brought it to his mind.
For long he muttered to himself,
staring at Smee, who was hemming
placidly, under the conviction
that all children feared him.
Feared him! Feared Smee! There
was not a child on board the
brig that night who did not already
love him. He had said horrid
things to them and hit them with
the palm of his hand, because
he could not hit with his fist,
but they had only clung to him
the more. Michael had tried on
his spectacles.
To tell poor
Smee that they thought him
lovable! Hook itched
to do it, but it seemed too brutal.
Instead, he revolved this mystery
in his mind: why do they find
Smee lovable? He pursued the
problem like the sleuth-hound
that he was. If Smee was lovable,
what was it that made him so?
A terrible answer suddenly presented
itself--"Good form?"
Had the bo'sun good form without
knowing it, which is the best
form of all?
He remembered that you have
to prove you don't know you have
it before you are eligible for
Pop [an elite social club at
Eton].
With a cry of rage he raised
his iron hand over Smee's head;
but he did not tear. What arrested
him was this reflection:
"To claw a
man because he is good form,
what would that be?"
"Bad form!"
The unhappy Hook was as impotent
[powerless] as he was damp, and
he fell forward like a cut flower.
His dogs thinking him out of
the way for a time, discipline
instantly relaxed; and they broke
into a bacchanalian [drunken]
dance, which brought him to his
feet at once, all traces of human
weakness gone, as if a bucket
of water had passed over him.
"Quiet, you scugs," he cried, "or
I'll cast anchor in you"; and
at once the din was hushed. "Are
all the children chained, so
that they cannot fly away?"
"Ay, ay."
"Then hoist
them up."
The wretched prisoners were
dragged from the hold, all except
Wendy, and ranged in line in
front of him. For a time he seemed
unconscious of their presence.
He lolled at his ease, humming,
not unmelodiously, snatches of
a rude song, and fingering a
pack of cards. Ever and anon
the light from his cigar gave
a touch of colour to his face.
"Now then, bullies," he said
briskly, "six of you walk the
plank to-night, but I have room
for two cabin boys. Which of
you is it to be?"
"Don't irritate him unnecessarily," had
been Wendy's instructions in
the hold; so Tootles stepped
forward politely. Tootles hated
the idea of signing under such
a man, but an instinct told him
that it would be prudent to lay
the responsibility on an absent
person; and though a somewhat
silly boy, he knew that mothers
alone are always willing to be
the buffer. All children know
this about mothers, and despise
them for it, but make constant
use of it.
So Tootles
explained prudently, "You
see, sir, I don't think my mother
would like me to be a pirate.
Would your mother like you to
be a pirate, Slightly?"
He winked at
Slightly, who said mournfully, "I don't think
so," as if he wished things had
been otherwise. "Would your mother
like you to be a pirate, Twin?"
"I don't think so," said the
first twin, as clever as the
others. "Nibs, would -- "
"Stow this gab," roared Hook,
and the spokesmen were dragged
back. "You, boy," he said, addressing
John, "you look as if you had
a little pluck in you. Didst
never want to be a pirate, my
hearty?"
Now John had sometimes experienced
this hankering at maths. prep.;
and he was struck by Hook's picking
him out.
"I once thought of calling
myself Red-handed Jack," he said
diffidently.
"And a good
name too. We'll call you that
here, bully, if
you join."
"What do you think, Michael?" asked
John.
"What would you call me if
I join?" Michael demanded.
"Blackbeard
Joe."
Michael was
naturally impressed. "What
do you think, John?" He wanted
John to decide, and John wanted
him to decide.
"Shall we still be respectful
subjects of the King?" John inquired.
Through Hook's
teeth came the answer: "You
would have to swear, `Down
with the King.'"
Perhaps John had not behaved
very well so far, but he shone
out now.
"Then I refuse," he
cried, banging the barrel in
front of
Hook.
"And I refuse," cried
Michael.
"Rule Britannia!" squeaked
Curly.
The infuriated
pirates buffeted them in the
mouth; and Hook roared
out, "That seals your doom. Bring
up their mother. Get the plank
ready."
They were only boys, and they
went white as they saw Jukes
and Cecco preparing the fatal
plank. But they tried to look
brave when Wendy was brought
up.
No words of
mine can tell you how Wendy
despised those pirates.
To the boys there was at least
some glamour in the pirate calling;
but all that she saw was that
the ship had not been tidied
for years. There was not a porthole
on the grimy glass of which you
might not have written with your
finger "Dirty pig"; and she had
already written it on several.
But as the boys gathered round
her she had no thought, of course,
save for them.
"So, my beauty," said Hook,
as if he spoke in syrup, "you
are to see your children walk
the plank."
Fine gentlemen though he was,
the intensity of his communings
had soiled his ruff, and suddenly
he knew that she was gazing at
it. With a hasty gesture he tried
to hide it, but he was too late.
"Are they to die?" asked
Wendy, with a look of such
frightful
contempt that he nearly fainted.
"They are," he snarled. "Silence
all," he called gloatingly, "for
a mother's last words to her
children." At this moment Wendy
was grand. "These are my last
words, dear boys," she said firmly. "I
feel that I have a message to
you from your real mothers, and
it is this: `We hope our sons
will die like English gentlemen.'"
Even the pirates
were awed, and Tootles cried
out hysterically, "I
am going to do what my mother
hopes. What are you to do, Nibs?"
"What my mother
hopes. What are you to do,
Twin?"
"What my mother
hopes. John, what are -- "
But Hook had found his voice
again.
"Tie her up!" he
shouted.
It was Smee
who tied her to the mast. "See here, honey," he
whispered, "I'll save you if
you promise to be my mother."
But not even
for Smee would she make such
a promise. "I would
almost rather have no children
at all," she said disdainfully
[scornfully].
It is sad to know that not
a boy was looking at her as Smee
tied her to the mast; the eyes
of all were on the plank: that
last little walk they were about
to take. They were no longer
able to hope that they would
walk it manfully, for the capacity
to think had gone from them;
they could stare and shiver only.
Hook smiled on them with his
teeth closed, and took a step
toward Wendy. His intention was
to turn her face so that she
should see they boys walking
the plank one by one. But he
never reached her, he never heard
the cry of anguish he hoped to
wring from her. He heard something
else instead.
It was the terrible tick-tick
of the crocodile.
They all heard it -- pirates,
boys, Wendy; and immediately
every head was blown in one direction;
not to the water whence the sound
proceeded, but toward Hook. All
knew that what was about to happen
concerned him alone, and that
from being actors they were suddenly
become spectators.
Very frightful was it to see
the change that came over him.
It was as if he had been clipped
at every joint. He fell in a
little heap.
The sound came
steadily nearer; and in advance
of it came this
ghastly thought, "The crocodile
is about to board the ship!"
Even the iron claw hung inactive;
as if knowing that it was no
intrinsic part of what the attacking
force wanted. Left so fearfully
alone, any other man would have
lain with his eyes shut where
he fell: but the gigantic brain
of Hook was still working, and
under its guidance he crawled
on the knees along the deck as
far from the sound as he could
go. The pirates respectfully
cleared a passage for him, and
it was only when he brought up
against the bulwarks that he
spoke.
"Hide me!" he
cried hoarsely.
They gathered round him, all
eyes averted from the thing that
was coming aboard. They had no
thought of fighting it. It was
Fate.
Only when Hook was hidden from
them did curiosity loosen the
limbs of the boys so that they
could rush to the ship's side
to see the crocodile climbing
it. Then they got the strangest
surprise of the Night of Nights;
for it was no crocodile that
was coming to their aid. It was
Peter.
He signed to them not to give
vent to any cry of admiration
that might rouse suspicion. Then
he went on ticking.
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